


just silence

by lifeitself



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Amnesia, Gen, Memory Loss, timeless child elements of course
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:21:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24566848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeitself/pseuds/lifeitself
Summary: The Judoon's idea of justice before they return her to Earth leaves the Doctor stranded without the memory of any of her 13th regeneration cycle.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 34
Collections: DW Creators Writing Style Swap





	just silence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [picnokinesis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/picnokinesis/gifts).



She doesn’t suppose that she’ll ever make it out. 

It isn’t the first time she’s ever thought about it, not really, but the thought looms so pervasive and  _ despondent  _ that she can’t-

She can’t think about it. 

She can’t let herself think about it. 

What she has to think about is  _ hope.  _

Hope that maybe, she won’t be sitting here in the dark in a cell on some unknown Judoon ship for eternity. 

Her odds aren’t good, and she knows it - she’s calculated them hundreds of times a day each day since she came- but she doesn’t think about the odds after she calculates them. She just calculates them again. And again.  _ And again and again and again and- _

She shakes her head to focus herself. 

There is a thin chill in the cell, and a draft of cold air blows its way from between the bars on her door and sinks itself into her skin. The hallway in front of her cell is silent, as always, but sometimes she likes to imagine that she can hear something- 

Maybe it is the songs of her people in the back of her mind. 

Maybe it is the memories of those songs. 

She doesn’t know anymore. Gallifrey is cinders one way or ashes another, and for once in her life, there’s  _ nothing _ she can do about either. 

She almost envies herself for  _ unknowing _ everything as the Timeless Child. 

Almost envies the blankness that must have come with it, the peace and calm of nothingness. 

She has built her entire life as an act of  _ rebellion _ against the stagnation of time, and now here she is on a cell floor, nothing but a memory to some and a tall tale to others. This, now, this is the very _ antithesis  _ of who she has made herself, and she doesn’t want to have to live it. She doesn’t want to have to feel the cold floor of a Judoon prison cell instead of the thrill of exuberance and joy for the rest of her lives. 

And if she can’t have the stars, she doesn’t want to know that she ever _ could  _ have had them. She doesn’t want to be reminded that she has people and memories to live for, if she cannot  _ live. _

So she calculates the numbers again, instead. 

The chance of Ryan finding her. _ Zero.  _

The chance of Yaz finding her.  _ Zero.  _

The chance of Graham finding her.  _ Zero.  _

The chance of any of her fam even  _ thinking  _ that she’s not space dust in some constellation somewhere?  _ Zero.  _

Chances of a Zyrosion Miltrak crossing the path of this Judoon prison ship at an eighty-two degree angle and perfectly aligning its horn with the engine stabilizers in order to momentarily disable the internal security locks on cell 470/2/4? 

Zero. Well, actually, in all fairness, that  _ could  _ actually happen, so she gives it a probability of 12.2% to account for each variable individually. 

But she can’t dwell on the number or let herself  _ think about it,  _ so- 

She calculates again. 

The chance of Ryan finding her. _ Zero.  _

The chance of Yaz finding her.  _ Zero.  _

The chance of Graham finding her.  _ Zero.  _

The numbers remain stubbornly the same. 

She lets herself slide down to the floor. She is so  _ cold,  _ and  _ alone,  _ and even the air tastes of  _ desperation.  _

The wall beside her mocks her quietly, the seven hundred thin tally marks decorating its walls a silent testament to the duration of her stay. 

Her mind wanders. She pulls it back. It’s better to think of her chances of getting out of here to think of- to think of  _ them.  _

The people that love her. 

The people who have loved her. 

Thinking that she’ll be trapped here forever is better by far then ever having to think about that fact that she will never see anyone ever again-

Never see them ever again. 

She is alone. Her breath  _ catches. _

Zero. 

Zero. 

Zero. 

Zero. 

Zero. 

The next time she opens her eyes, things are  _ different,  _ and as soon as she recognizes that she is somewhere else, she is wide awake, senses from a war she has almost -  _ never really _ \- forgotten snapping her to alertness far faster than anything else could have. 

She blinks, letting her eyes adjust to the brightness of the world around her. It is  _ different,  _ and that alone is kicking her brain into high gear. 

Different is good. Different is safe.

Different could possibly mean-

“PRISONER 470/2/4.” comes a booming voice, the tone of a Judoon soldier clearly modulated through some sort of advanced translation device. 

“That’s me,” the Doctor mutters, trying and failing to pull herself up into a sitting position.

It was insulting that they thought she needed the translation device, really. Especially since they clearly knew who she was- well enough to lock her in a cell with about sixty-three different contingency plans for an escape attempt on her part and failsafes for each of those contingency plans, should they even begin. 

“DUE TO EXTENUATING CIRCUMSTANCES, OUR LEASE ON YOUR IMPRISONMENT HAS BEEN TERMINATED. AS A RESULT WE MUST EXACT A JUDGEMENT UPON YOU NOW TO FULFILL ANY LINGERING JUSTICE OR EXECUTE YOU.”

She always finds it so fun when her two choices are literally “die,” or “don’t die.” 

At least she has something to keep her occupied now, though. 

So it can’t be too bad, not really. 

“Do I get a say?” she grumbles loudly into the blinding white light. “Because I’d like to live,  _ if you don’t mind _ .” 

“PRISONER QUERY IS VALID. PRISONER REQUEST HAS BEEN NOTED. PRISONER REQUEST WILL BE HONORED. AWAITING JUDGEMENT.”

There is a long, bright,  _ sterile _ silence.

Then there is something  _ white-hot _ and  _ bruising _ scraping through her head like an  _ ice-pick- _

There is  _ nothing.  _

“JO TRO DO GO FLO MO FLO NO TO SHO FLO XO FLO CO TRO TO FLO DO BLA SHO PO RO KRO SO PLO NO FLO RO CHO SO SHO MO FLO MO PLO RO KRO FLO SO SHO HO BLO VO FLO SHO BO FLO FLO NO SHO FLO RO BLO SO FLO DO.”

* * *

  
  


Marilee is walking down the street calmly when she sees the woman. 

For someone who is at least three inches shorter than she is, the woman exudes an energy that takes up space in strange ways, but her eyes are confused and her clothes look very old and worn. 

Marilee doesn’t like approaching people like this. She wants to be able to help them, but she doesn’t have much in the way of means herself, and to make eye contact with them seems almost rude, like she is invading their sanctity and privacy if she looks at them too long. 

The streets are the hallways of the homeless, after all. One doesn’t just drag their feet through strangers’ hallway.

_ “Marilee,” _ her mother’s voice echoes in her head,  _ “You know just as well as I do that people living on the streets don’t think of it that way. A little kindness goes a long way with anyone, and is never unappreciated. Don’t be stingy with your open arms, or they aren’t properly open at all.”  _

So Marilee takes a deep breath, and watches. 

The woman stumbles a bit to the side, and her eyes widen as if she isn’t quite used to walking on her legs at all. 

Marilee hastens towards her. “Ma’am?” she asks, voice cautious and careful. She does not want to intrude. The woman does not respond at all, nor give any indication that she’s even  _ heard- _

“Ma’am,” Marilee insists, louder. “You’re bleeding.”

And she is. The strange woman has a furious nosebleed, over which she has clapped one hand while she uses the other to draw up a corner of her jacket sleeve to staunch it. 

“Are you talking to me?” The woman finally asks, and Marilee is caught off guard by the tone. 

It is not guarded, or cynical, or despondent. 

It is taken aback, astonished, and  _ incredulous. _

“Yes ma’am,” Marilee responds cautiously. 

“Do I- do I look like a ma’am?” asks the Woman with wide eyes, but cuts herself off abruptly. “I certainly sound a bit like one.” 

She looks fascinated now. 

“But I don’t remember-” her brow furrows. “I don’t remember- changing.” 

“Ma’am,” Marilee repeats, now more urgent as the blood dripping from the woman’s nose has soaked halfway down her jacket sleeve, and the woman looks worryingly pale. 

“Something’s  _ wrong _ -” the woman starts in a near whisper. “Something’s very, very-” she teeters, and gives Marilee no more warning before she topples completely to the ground, pale fingers splaying across concrete and the steady  _ drip-drip-drip-drip  _ of her blood smacking a steady rhythm on the sidewalk. 

Marilee rushes to her side, kneeling and feeling the woman’s neck for a pulse with trembling fingers. 

Her other hand fumbles for her cell phone and she dials a shaky 999. 

“There’s- ” she fumbles for words, “q uick,” she breathes, heart racing. “I don’t know- I don’t know what’s happening, but I think this woman is  _ dying- _ ”

* * *

  
  
  
  


When she wakes up, it is bright. 

Something tells her she has woken up like this before, but she ignores it. More pressing is the fact that she can quite clearly remember being addressed as a  _ woman _ right before- 

She presses a hand to her forehead. 

It hurts. 

Her head  _ hurts _ so  _ badly. _

It’s so  _ fuzzy.  _ She had been walking down a road-  _ had she parked the Tardis there?  _ And there had been someone calling after her, except the voice had said  _ Ma’am,  _ and she was definitely not- unless this was the Post-Regeneration-Fuzzies? 

She brightens and tries to open her eyes all the way. 

“No,” she mutters, before grimacing and running her tongue across her lips and over her teeth. 

Well, one thing’s for certain, then. 

She has definitely regenerated. 

And she is in a hospital bed. A very  _ human  _ hospital bed, too, which is  _ not _ promising. 

“Tell me they haven’t hooked me up to the pointy squishy thing,” she mutters, pulling off her flimsy covers and groaning as she realizes that they have, indeed, attached her to the pointy... _ thing. _

She swings her legs over the side of the bed and uses the last vestiges of strength in her body to pull herself to her feet with a groan, grappling for a moment with the IV before successfully pulling it out and mumbling uncomplimentary when it bleeds. 

She stumbles over to the mirror on the wall and-

_ Well that answers the question,  _ she supposes. 

She had regenerated. 

She just did not know  _ when _ . 

And apparently this new regeneration did not have the good sense to even  _ mention _ the whole “no hospitals, please,” thing. 

How rude. 

  
  


Her mandated visit with the hospital counsellor is a  _ smashing _ success, if one counts success in the measure of how many times she can make the counsellor say, “oh, dear,” in under a minute. 

“Well,” says the nice woman, grey hair pulled back into a soft ponytail, “I think you’ve definitely sustained some sort of head injury, as was suspected. I’m going to have another doctor take a longer look at you, but your answers to the questions that I’ve posed indicate that you may be suffering from a severe injury.”

“I wasn’t joking when I said last I remember I was Scottish,” grumbles the Doctor. Her head  _ blazed,  _ and it took all her willpower not to claw at her head. 

“Were you joking when you said you were an old, white-haired Scotsman?” the counsellor returned sharply, and the Doctor sighs. 

“Listen,” she tries. “You’re very-  _ human, _ and I can’t fault you for it, but there are  _ obviously _ going to be some things past your capacity- and oh, I’m being rude, I’m sorry, my head is killing me-” 

The counsellor is quiet for a long moment. “I’ll have the doctors put you on some painkillers, then.”

“ _ I’m _ the Doctor,” the Doctor slurs obstinately, but it trails off into exhaustion.

“So you’ve said,” replies the woman, tone tired. “I know this is all scary, but we’re going to help you, do you understand? We’re going to figure out who you are together, and we’re going to help you back onto your feet.”

“I’ll be alright soon,” says the Doctor, but it is very quiet and she is so, so  _ tired _ \- surely closing her eyes for a moment couldn’t hurt?- “Just gotta- brain must still be forming-” 

Darkness, when it envelopes her again, is welcome. 

* * *

They say she has some sort of brain injury. She’s coping by imagining past memories as happening to a different person than herself, possibly someone she knew well. 

She doesn’t know how to tell them that she knows perfectly well who she has been, it’s her now that doesn’t make sense, but the doctors don’t seem particularly fond of her when she spits out in a moment of aggravation that she supposes that they “must have an issue with the other eleven bodies I’ve had too, then!” 

She has known for a while now that she has not simply regenerated. 

Regeneration is a russian roulette, and there is no doubt that it leaves her spiralling and confused for days afterwards as she grapples with new  _ memories  _ and new _ liver _ and new  _ teeth and eyes and ideas and thoughts  _ as a result of new _ brains _ \- 

But she has never felt like she was missing something. Regeneration has never felt so keenly of complete and utter loss. 

Regeneration is newness and new possibilities and newness - rebirth, inspiration, and new character. Never nothingness. Never blankness, numbness. Never like this. 

No, she knows. She knows that this is not regeneration.

She didn’t tell them her theory. Her theory that she hadn’t  _ forgotten _ anything, not as such, but had instead been  _ erased _ . Her very self dispositioned and unlatched from being, her memories ungrounded and sent away from herself. 

She could think of any number of people or species who might stand to gain from her never remembering who she truly was ever again, and the fact that she couldn’t remember who she was now was not so bad since she couldn’t remember if who she was held any meaning to her or  _ anyone else _ -

At the same time, it was  _ unnerving _ , unnerving in the manner that all she was was a collection of memories, of experiences, and of shaping events. She is  _ made  _ out of the flow of time. To remove parts of time from her being was to unmoor her from her very  _ existence.  _

She closes her eyes tightly and lets the uncontrolled shaking of her hands ground her, even though her hands shaking at all means that she is ungrounded, that her feet have been swept out from underneath her and that she is  _ lost _ at sea. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> pardon any mistakes in here this evening - I'm about to fall asleep. for the wonderful taka <3 thank you for all your kind words. I wish I could do your style complete justice! any mistakes on my part are all my own, and anything I did right is me striving to be you. much love.  
> this is all written! the rest will be updated in chunks every two days ish. if I can hold out that long. skdfjkdfj


End file.
